They’ll make a lovely couple. Good humoured, witty, hard-working and almost mentally stable.

The stag was last weekend. There’s not much to tell. A vow of omertà was taken I’m told.

There was a pre-hen party too. The chicken as the ladies called it.

Planned as a dry run for the real thing, with dry being the keyword. A nice meal, maybe one or two drinks, just maybe mind, a stay overnight at the bride-to-be’s sister’s and a good long old chat.

All went well until the waiter deposited free passes to a newly opened nightclub on the table. Well what were the girls to do? They couldn’t exactly turn down such a generous offer. It would have been plain rude.

They politely accepted the free cocktail too. And shur it was only right to buy a second as a thank you to the club owner. And a third as a thank you very much. And …

… they left at 3am, the main-miss doing so by sliding head first down the stairs, ending between the legs of a doorman and whacking him hard in the groin with her head as she stood up.

Back at the house, well there had to be a wee nightcap, didn’t there? And the nightcap became a night-nightcap. And a night-night-nightcap.

Charades. Charades are always a great idea when you have a half-gallon of assorted spirits swirling around in your belly.

“A movie – one word – the whole thing” and the main-miss stripped down to her thong stretching the elasticated ties over her shoulders.

If that was just the chicken I can’t imagine what the hen will be like. If any reader sees a female Borat impersonator on the streets of Liverpool next weekend let me know.

A master of malapropism and maladroit with words generally, he has always been good for a giggle. On slow days we’d purposely prod him.

Jake, one of the main protagonists, commented, you know, Republican, you’re as glabrous as I am hirsute.

I’m what?

With my bushy beard and your rapidly receding hairline, we are polar-opposites.

Oh yez are all great lads. Slagging me … me … me erstwhile hair. Well mocking is catching and you’ll wake up one these mornings with appalachia. You’ll be as garrulous as I am. Who’ll be laughing then?

Now there’s an interesting fact: Gallarous Oratory is where the monks first invented the tonsure. That must be where the word comes from.

And Jake left it at that. The Republican would be bursting to astound customers with his new-found gem of knowledge. We could sit back and listen. It was guaranteed to keep us amused for a long time.

And so we waited for the next slow day. Hey, Republican, I said, you’re a man who knows his stuff. Which is grammatically correct: There “is soles on my shoes”, or there “are soles on my shoes”.

“Are”. Shoes is plural.

You sure? I mean, like there’s only one sole on one shoe. That’d make it singular. I’d say there is soles.

No! “Are”. Has to be “are”. Two soles on two shoes.

Ah now, interjected, Jake. I think Sneezy’s right. You say “a pair of shoes”. That’s singular. And anyway, you can’t have two soles on a shoe.

It wasn’t long before the Republican was red-faced and slamming the counter screaming “Are Soles, Are Soles, Are Soles”.

We feigned disgust and walked away, pints in hand, to look out the window.

To break the tension and change the subject mar dhea I said, you have to hand it to those steeplejacks working on the church spire. Brave men to be going up that high.

Steeplejills actually, pointed out Jake.

Really? Women? The two of them?

Oh yes. And very sought after steeplejills they are to. They get called in on jobs all over the world. On big money those girls I tell you. Big money.

Now here, you pair, butted in the Republican, whether they’re men or women they’re still steeplejacks. There’s no such thing as a steeplejill.

Don’t let those lassies hear you say that. They’d be very upset. Very proud of being steeplejills they are.

I’ll prove it, said the Republican, spying a big blue covered tome on the shelf … Hey! What sort of a dictionary is this? It doesn’t even have steeplejack in it.

Eh, said Jake, that’s a thesaurus. The lads left it there for when they’re doing the crossword.

And what exactly would a thesaurus be?

It’d be where the country buses stop in Dublin … and we ran.

I dropped the phone and let Sally in. Not that I wanted to. Sally wrecks my head. One day she’s a vegetablarian – a follower of the all-powerful god Parsnip, the next she’s into feng shui lawn mowing. Her only redeeming feature is her fashion sense – all her jumpers have the most impressive lady-bumps. I don’t know how she does it.

I heard you on the phone. Hope I wasn’t disturbing something important.

No. Just the parish priest and one of his Internet dilemmas. So what’s with you today? Let me guess. You’ve put your name down for a trip on Soyuz so you can commune better with Luna?

Fek off! That’s stupid. Listen I need advice.

Cat hair in the fridge again? Just dab on some vinegar and wipe off with a soft dog. Got that tip from Grannymar.

Who? Ah, stop it will you. You’re not taking me seriously. I have car trouble. It keeps revving even when I have my foot off the accelerator.

I know nothing about cars.

But you could check on the Internet.

[Click, clickity, click] Yes. There it is. “Primal Sneeze knows nothing about cars”. Satisfied?

Would you just take a look anyway? I don’t want to go to a garage and have them pretend there’s loads of stuff wrong and charge me a fortune.

Oh right. Com’on … Ehm, uh huh, ah ha, etc. There’s the problem.

What is it? Can you do something? And what do you mean by “etc”?

The jijjle pin is jammed against the Turing ratchet. No. And just for effect.

What do you think caused it?

You probably parked it facing the wrong way once too often. Across a ley line or something.

Oh god! So what do I do?

Take it to my cousin Brian. He’s a mechanic over in Crowleys. Everyone says he’s the B. Sneeze.

Thanks Primal. I’ll go see him right now.

Grand. I’ll let him know you’re on the way.

~+~

Howya Brian. Just sent you a customer … No. Haven’t the foggiest what’s wrong. Shur you know me and cars … You’ll recognise her easy enough. Lovely jumper … Here. Is that calendar from the Chinese takeaway still on the wall over there? … Good. Good. Now listen. When she wants to know how long it’ll take to fix, ask her in what month she bought the car, then pretend to consult the calendar. Let me know what happens.

He went to work for a farmer after leaving school. This we know. We also know the job ended when he was 18 and eligible for state benefits. Because of his “nerves” you understand.

He spent his days cooking and cleaning for his brother and a neighbour. In return they paid for the shopping, gave him a little money and the neighbour chauffeured him around. The three bachelors coexisted happily in this symbiotic relationship for nearly 40 years. But when the other two lost their jobs and, with less money and more time on their hands, they opted to do their own cooking, Eugene was at a loose end, out of pocket and without transport.

He went to the local garda station and insisted the sergeant force the pair to pay him redundancy.

Rather than send him packing sergeant Mahon brokered a compromise: No money would be paid, no cooking would be done, but the chauffeur service would remain and Eugene’s brother would help with those expenses. Being a wise in the ways of community policing Mahon knew the locals well. He knew Eugene hated walking and transport would be the deal clincher. The last thing sergeant Mahon wanted was Eugene walking the roads and causing an accident

Even as a child he hated walking. Going to and from school he would get as far as the canal bridge and wait for a passing barge. They were many in those days bringing turf from the midlands to Dublin and Guinness out from Dublin. However, unlike trains they weren’t reliable and a heavier than normal cargo or an overworked horse could slow their progress. But Eugene would wait. Anything other than walk. His excuses to the teacher for tardiness ran along the lines of “I missed the boat”, “the mare was lame” or “too much Guinness”.

So sergeant Mahon’s solution worked well. It went like clockwork in fact. At 10:05 (after he got the news on the radio) each morning Eugene would walk the short distance to Christy’s. Christy would have the car warmed up and they’d go to the village to get the paper and do a bet. Each evening at 9:15 (after they got the news on the telly) all three would go to the pub and return at precisely 11:00. On Fridays they would go to Naas and do the big shop.

So used was he to this routine that once when a motorist in need of directions asked “how do you get to Naas from here?”, Eugene replied “Christy drives me”.

Not that the system was without hiccups. Especially after Eugene’s brother died and left him a small, but to him substantial, amount of money. Now and again he would spend a little more time in the shops or treat himself to an extra pint. This carry on didn’t suit Christy one bit and knocked his routine out of kilter.

One night the pub was particularly lively. Music and singing and everyone in high spirits after a good day at the races. Eugene was about to order one of his extra pints when Christy announced it was time to leave. Eugene could get a lift now, or stay for the pint and walk home. They argued a while but Eugene relented at the prospect of having to walk and reluctantly left. Very reluctantly.

The next evening Eugene arrived in the pub alone. Christy came in shortly after brandishing a shiner and sat the other end of the bar. “Jayzez, what happened to you?”, asked the owner. “Eugene hit me”. Worried that the row took place on his premises he enquired of Eugene as to where he hit him. “In the passenger eye, can’t ya see”, he said, “and I’ll him in the driver’s eye next time”. From then on, Christy placidly waited while Eugene enjoyed an extra pint.

Some years later Eugene rented out his house and moved into another in the village. Close to the shops and pubs now, he no longer had need of Christy.

Weeks went by in his new home. Eugene was happy. Christy, happier. All he was missing was the phone. He mentioned it to an ex-employee of eircom who volunteered to chase it up. But eircom had no record of it, so assuming the office had lost the order he just went ahead place a new one, pulled a few strings and within two days Eugene has his phone. “The application you sent in must have gotten lost”, he explained to Eugene, “but I have it sorted now”. “What! I had to apply? Sure, didn’t they know I moved!”

You could never tell if Eugene Duggan is just plain dumb. If not intelligent and witty then he is one of the cutest of all cute hoors they way he contrives for everything to fall into his lap. Or maybe not.

Jayzez, Batt, that dog of yours strolled across the road in front of me and I coming up the village just now. I was taking it handy, but yer man coming the other way nearly clipped him. And you, ya hoor, sitting in the jeep watching it all and doing nothing.

Eh, nothing I can do. It’s a ritual. As soon as I open the gate in the morning, he’s straight over to Tim Hayes’ front lawn, performs his toilet and comes back.

Oh. Well I’d say Tim isn’t happy about that.

Eh, he has remarked the dog is like myself – never one to shite on his own doorstep.

Batt has a history of lawns and crap so nothing surprises me any more.

Years back he lived well outside the village. A fine big house on a rise with a well kept lawn rolling down to the road.

Late one night, The Duck, an elderly man and a martyr for the drink, was walking home with a small bag of messages and a gallon or more of porter bubbling around in his belly when he got short-taken at Batt’s.

The next morning, heading out to work, Batt found the bag of messages on the lawn. He took a detour by The Duck’s, knocked on the door and handed it over.

Eh, mornin’, Duck. Ah, you left this on my lawn last night.

Ah jayzez, Batt, yer a gentleman. Without ya I’d be lost. I had nothing for the breakfast this morning and couldn’t figure out what happened me messages.

Eh, and you left this as well.

The Duck wasn’t in the least bit happy with the contents of the second plastic bag.

A name. She would need a name. We took to the high stool, leaving the puppy to explore the bar, to think about it.

Dee-Oh-G was a runner. Maybe Keh-mere. Barker? Maybe, but what if she turned out to be a whiner instead? We called another round – these deliberations could take time.

Ah for fuck sake, screamed the barman. Look what that bastardin’ dog of yours is after doing!

Unnamed puppy, exhausted from exploring, had climbed on a bench, fallen fast asleep and peed all over it. Awakened by the commotion, she was visibly embarrassed.

The barman tossed a out toilet roll. Here, he roared red-faced, you wipe that up. I’m not going near it.

Pat tore off two small sheets, walked over, gently raised the dog’s tail and dabbed at her butt.

They met in London. She was nursing England. He was building it. Within months they both knew they had found their match.

That summer they came home for a holiday and stayed with her parents. Things were going very well until the third day when he was left alone with Maureen Waters for the first time.

Maureen can be daunting at first. I know that myself. Straight-backed and always immaculately groomed, her accent and even her gait betray a background far above her husband’s station.

So, Patrick, tell me again what it is you do? I understand it is in the area of construction.

Groundworker mainly, Mrs. Waters. But I can turn me hand to anything, as they say.

A groundworker? What exactly does that entail? Would one consider it a skilled profession?

Well ya have to know what you’re at. We get the ground cleared and lay down the drains and the paths and the foundations and all that.

It does not appear to be quite an important role. Or indeed, skilled. Unless of course I am misinterpreting what you say, Patrick.

Oh it is important, missis! Shur if we don’t get our bit right then the whole lot could come tumbling down.

I see. And the remuneration?

Huh?

The money, Patrick. As a career, is it well paid?

Well I’ll put it to ya this way, Mrs. Waters. If that lassie of yours sticks with me, in no time at all she’ll be farting through pure silk.

Why is that? you may ask. Well, I may tell you, we grew up together and have been playing practical jokes on each other since we could walk and slagging each other since we could talk.

I was invited to his wedding. A blacktie affair the invitation said. Well it was for me and no one else. I stood out like a right dick in my monkey suit. I got him back for that the week he came home from the honeymoon – he came out one morning to find “Just Married” sprayed on the post van in shaving foam and a clatter of tins cans tied to the back. He was half way through his round when someone pointed out the banner trailing from the aerial – “I got my first ride”.

For months now he’s been at me to put a postbox at the entrance. For months now I’ve been putting it off just to bug him.

I relented last week and bought one. But I couldn’t hang it on my own, so I figured who better to help me than the man who would use it most. On Friday he held it while I bolted it on. He even got to pick the spot it went. I thanked him most profusely: That’s grand. You won’t be coming into the yard annoying me now.

Yesterday I seen him pass by the window. A knock on the door. I ignored it. He came to the window.

Open the door, ya bollix ya.

How do I know it’s you?

You can see me, for feck sake.

Not good enough. Have you ID? And anyway, the postman always knocks twice.

He knocked on the door again and I opened it.

Would ya not use that grand postbox I bought ya?

I have a parcel. Won’t fit. Why didn’t ya get a decent size one?

Me? Me? You’re blaming me? Shur it was you put it up.

I did not. You did.

No I didn’t. As sure as the dog’s me witness, I seen ya. I was standing there right beside ya on when you put it up. Not my fault you put up a box that’s too small.

I noticed something protruding for the box later. He’d gone and stuffed it full of advertising leaflets.

I left them in it. We’ll see what happens today.

This isn’t mine.

Are you sure?

Yeah, I’m sure. It’s Morris Harney’s pension cheque from Roadstone.

You opened it?

No I didn’t. It says “Roadstone – Pensions Department” on it.

So how come you have it?

You gave it to me!

You’d say anything to get me in trouble. And I suppose you want me to deliver it for you now?

Yes and yes.

Anything else you want me to do, not that me heart isn’t scalded with work as it is?

Just see if there are any cheques for me in with the Harneys’ pile.

How will I know them?

They have a small black dog and an ‘06 Mazda.

Not the Harneys – the cheques!

They’ll have my name on them.

· Practising reading upside down I see, Sneezy.
· Drunk again, Peadar?
· No harm in that, Sneezy. Shur I had a few meself.*
· I guessed that.
· You know, just one pint a day can save the life of a starving child in Africa.
· Really?
· Oh yes. The biggest Guinness brewery of all is in Nigeria. There’d be no work without it and the people wouldn’t be able to feed their families.
· But we don’t get our porter from over there. Ours comes from Dublin.
· See? Even better. We’re not just helping hungry kids, we’re reducing our carbon footsteps. Anyway, there’s loads of Nigerians in Dublin too.
· So during the recession our CO₂ emissions will rise?
· Through the roof, Sneezy. Through the roof. We’ll be choking we will.
· So the government should be encouraging people to drink?
· It’d be good for the environment and mean spending less on aid to Africa too.
· This place seems to be doing its bit. Busy enough. He has a sign in the window looking for part-time staff.
· He should be doing more – he should be looking for customers.

I made a phone call. Listed the fonts; styles; positioning; size. Within minutes I had second poster in the window, exactly matching the other in look and feel, except this one said “Full-time Customers Wanted”.

Peadar and I were very pleased with our work. The owner wasn’t and we’re both barred. Sometimes no matter what you try do to save the environment and feed the hungry, big business will block you.

* 2^nd oldest joke in Ireland. The 1^st is so old, I can’t remember it.